A Walk in the Park
by cryom
Summary: One-shot. Modern AU and very OOC. An app spits out a line that challenges Erik to a spontaneous outing where he meets a grieving Christine.


**Author's Notes:**

 **1\. I do not own Phantom of the Opera.  
2\. I am not affiliated with the developers of the app, nor am I here to promote the app. The app merely generated a line which spoke to me as a Phantom fan, and out came this one-shot.  
3\. This is a modern AU, and the characters are OOC. Christine does not believe in angels, and Erik is not as unsocialized.**

* * *

 _ **"Now that it's dark enough to obscure your disfigurements, it's finally safe to go out in public." – CARROT Weather App.**_

He has been staring at his phone for the last five minutes, re-reading those words displayed on the weather app that he had only installed because he likes the snarky attitude programmed into it. Ironically, it is that acerbic attitude that has upset him, reminding him of the reason he hates going out in public most days, even in New York City where people tend to leave his _"eccentric appearance"_ alone. The words displayed on the screen of his phone continue to mock him, drawing his ire and he feels tempted to hurl the phone against the wall. Still, he remains sane enough to recognize that the programmers did not intentionally direct those words at him, they have simply promised a comically malicious AI for their app, and there is no good reason to destroy a two thousand dollar phone because his feelings got a little hurt.

"Well, if you say so," he grumbles at his phone after staring at those mocking words for another three minutes. "I shall venture out to walk amongst the living then."

The weather is cool for a summer evening, and he goes out dressed in a white T-shirt under a light leather jacket, jeans, and a Yankees baseball cap, pulled low to hide the white polymer mask that is covering up said disfigurements he's carried with him since birth. That weather app has no idea that darkness alone is insufficient to _"obscure"_ his hideous face. Not one person pays him any mind as he strolls around Central Park; the truth is that even if he walked around without his mask or his cap, New Yorkers will simply regard him as a crazy dude dressed up for Halloween in July. Still, having been bullied through school for a birth defect he had no control over has forced him to learn to conceal his face from others. He has no desire to be gawked at by strangers on this spontaneous outing.

He finds himself at the lake near Bethesda Fountain, admiring at the way the orange sunset is reflected in the water, when he hears a voice singing quietly. It is an occupational hazard, he has always been able to hear a good voice, and the potential of this singer excites him. He traces the sound to its source, a girl sitting on a bench clutching to an urn in her hands, singing a requiem. He can see that her clothes are tattered, her shoes are worn out, and her hair looks as if she has not tended to it in days. He takes a seat, keeping his good side of his face to her and at least two feet between them, and he cannot help himself but harmonize with her as she finishes her song. She turns just a little to afford him a smile of gratitude, and his heart almost stops from the way the orange sky illuminates her face.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he surprises himself by breaking the silence between them.

"He... he was everything I had," her voice cracks in response, accompanied by tears. He hands her a handkerchief made of fine linen, and she glances at him as if he is from outer space. He understands that not many people would carry one with them these days, but for him, this item is a necessity. If anything were to happen to his mask, the handkerchief could immediately be used to shield his hideous face from the world. She takes his offering, her tiny hand clenches around the soft fabric as she dries her tears before she thanks him.

"Are you okay?" he asks, surprising himself. With the exception of that Iranian kid who always defended him through their school years, he rarely cared about anyone at all. Even the musicians he works with at the Met Opera are kept at a strictly professional distance. "Do you need help?"

"Help?" she scoffs and he raises his hidden eyebrow at her sudden change in demeanor. "I don't think you can help me unless you have three hundred thousand dollars just sitting around."

He glances at the urn and his brain connects all the dots. Her last family member must have died from a medical condition, racking up a very expensive hospital bill. "How did he die?"

"Liver cancer," she replies. "It's been... very trying... These past three days, the hospital administrators used a lot of jargon to talk about my father's medical bills." The tears are flowing again, and in between sobs, she adds, "The bank sent a foreclosure notice a week ago. And then there's the funeral home... I don't know what to do... Or where to go..."

He scoots just a little closer to her, and bends down a little so she can see him, but still trying to keep his mask out of her sight. "When is the foreclosure?"

"I don't know... I'm afraid to go back to check... If I'm homeless, what am I to do?" her lips quiver as she speaks. "I can't go back there without him. It's too soon... How am I to survive in this city? But if I leave, where will I go?"

"Do you have anyone you can call? A friend, maybe?" he asks.

"And what will I say to them? _'Hey Meg, it's Christine. You know, the girl who dropped out half way through our sophomore year because I can no longer afford tuition at Juilliard? So my dad's finally passed away, and now I need a place to stay. Can I stay at yours? Indefinitely?'_ I'm sure that'd go over so well," she rolls her eyes at him, and then her features soften immediately and she says, "I'm sorry. I know you're only trying to help... I shouldn't—"

"It's okay, Christine. You just lost your father. You're allowed to be sad and angry," he interjects gently. He wonders what she had been studying at Juilliard, and he'd be extremely interested in securing someone with her potential if she had been training to be a singer. He offers, "Would you... accept my help?"

"I don't have three hundred thousand to pay you back," she slumps just a little. "Even if you paid off whatever loans he took, I am not even college-educated... What job can I get to repay you or to keep up with the mortgage payments?"

"I meant I can let you stay at my place tonight," he laughs lightly. "At least you'll have a roof over your head, and then we can figure out the state of your affairs tomorrow?"

"I don't even know you," she glances over, and a little gasp escape her when she catches sight of his mask. "What if you murder me like the hockey mask guy from that movie – what's it called? – Friday the 13th? I doubt my father would want me to join him so soon."

He laughs heartily this time. It has been a while since he's been this amused via direct human interaction. He scrolls through his phone to find something before handing over the device to her, saying, "I'm Erik."

She finds that he has opened his profile listed on the website of the Met Opera. His masked appearance matches the picture listed on the webpage. Erik Danforth. Renowned composer and Music Director at thirty-seven. Notable works include... She turns back and beams at him. "You're the Erik Danforth? Oh. My. God. I've been a big fan of your work since... since I was a little girl! I love the music you compose! I'm so embarrassed that I didn't recognize you!"

"That's okay, there aren't that many photos of me floating around anyway. Now that you know that I'm not a mask-wearing murderer, will you accept my help?" Erik asks. "I don't think your father would want you to live on the streets." He rises from the bench and she sees his towering height for the first time. "Listen, it's already dark out, it's late, and I'm sure you've had a long and trying day. I'm about to go home to make dinner. Would you like to join me?"

"Will you play something for me after?" she asks unabashedly, picking up a violin case from under the bench and running after him. Erik slows his pace so that she can keep up with him. "It's always been a dream of mine to hear you play."

"Of course, Christine," he nods and then smirks when he hears her squeal in excitement.

He reaches over to take the violin case from her, and they walk to his apartment mostly in silence. Erik watches the way she marvels at the doorman greeting him at his apartment building, and he can tell that she has never lived in such luxuries. She smiles in awe as he lets her into his two-story penthouse suite, and he lets her clean herself up in the powder room as he gathers some supplies for her. Erik hands her a pair of new sandals, since he typically never wears his shoes past the foyer.

"The bathroom is over there," Erik points out after leading her up the spiral glass staircase. He hands her a clean towel, a fresh toothbrush and toothpaste. In his other hand, he offers her a pair of his boxers and a dress shirt of his. "I'm sorry, I don't have any women's clothing in my home, so you'll have to make do with these. If that's okay?"

"Thank you, Erik," she accepts the items, her fingers grazing his just a little. "Would you mind if I took a bath?"

"Go ahead, take your time," Erik replies. "I'll make us dinner."

He stares at the door to the bathroom longer than he'd like after hearing the sound of water running, and he shakes his head a little just to clear his mind. The hour is late, and he has no intention of spending hours on preparing a meal, so he takes out the prime rib steaks he bought last night to sear on the grill pan. He tosses some salad to go with the steak. He pauses to wonder if she's of legal age to drink, since all he knows is that she dropped out sometime in her sophomore year, and he errs on the side of caution and forgoes putting any alcohol out at all.

She walks down the glass staircase, her hair still wet from the lack of a hairdryer in his home, the water dripping slightly onto his white shirt draped over her smaller form. She smiles at him, clearly glad to have had the opportunity to clean up, and excited from the aroma of food in the air. When she sits across from him and devours the steak, he doesn't have the heart to ask her to savor the premium cut of beef he had prepared for dinner, as he suspects that she had not eaten all day, given the state in which he had found her.

"Thank you, Erik," she says sincerely, satisfied to be clean and fed after a long day. "I don't know how I can repay your kindness."

"Well, I do have a proposition for you," he replies with a shrug, still working through his steak. He is eating much slower as a result of keeping the mask on.

"Oh no! you're not going to pimp me out, are you?" the words escape her lips the moment he finishes his sentence. His brows furrow in response. "Please, Erik. I cannot be a prostitute. I just turned twenty and I haven't even had a real boyfriend yet!"

"Jesus, Christine!" Erik exclaims. "Do you always expect such horrible things? First, murderer. Now, pimp? Really?"

"You're a music director living in a two-story penthouse suite on the Upper East Side," she states, as if the discrepancy between his lifestyle and his income should be the most obvious thing in the world.

"I've been composing since I was barely a teenager, Christine," he explains. "I've composed for movies, musicals, TV shows, soundtracks for games, and the list goes on. I get _some_ royalties. And then there's my art – you know what, that's irrelevant – let's just say that I get well compensated for my work."

"You're also an artist?" she asks.

"I _dabble."_ he admits. "Now, back to my proposition. If you don't mind me asking, what did you study at Juilliard?"

"Double major in vocal arts and drama," she sighs, disappointed at being reminded of her broken dream.

"I was right. You have had some vocal training," Erik states as he places the last piece of steak into his mouth. He nods lightly. "I want to train your voice."

"What?" she's surprised at his request.

"I want to train your voice," he repeats. "I am confident that I am more than qualified to hone your voice to perfection."

"What's the catch?" she asks. "Do you want me to be your mistress or something?"

"God, Christine, just stop with the ridiculous assumptions!" Erik snaps and she jumps visibly. "Have I ever done anything that remotely suggests that I would act inappropriately towards you?" She shakes her head. "The _catch,_ so to speak, is for you to let me manage your career."

"Erik, I haven't sung since I left Juilliard to work while taking care of my dad," she sighs, slumping into the chair. "I can't sing without thinking about him. I only sang in the park because I promised him one last song. I don't know if I will ever sing again..."

"Grieve as long as you need, Christine. It's not like there's anyone who'd sleep in that guest room anyway," he offers. "I'll take you to my lawyers tomorrow and they can help figure out what your dad owed, and what debts you might have inherited. We'll see if there's anything I can do to help you."

"Let me repeat this back to you, and you will see why I find all this too good to be true... You are offering to let me stay here, pretty much indefinitely, you want to help me sort out my family affairs, you want to train my voice and the only catch is that you want to manage my career?" she asks pointedly. "This arrangement sounds awfully one-sided in my favor, don't you think? What do you truly want out of this?"

"Just your voice, Christine," Erik replies without missing a beat. "You have no idea just how much potential I hear in it, and I would really hate to see it fester."

"But I might not even be able to bring myself to sing again. He was my only reason to sing," she points at the distant urn. "What if I can never sing again? Will you throw me out on the streets then? How will I ever repay you?"

"We'll take it one day at a time, Christine," he almost purrs at her. "I suppose if you cannot find your voice, I'll have to settle for your company instead." Then, remembering all her earlier accusations against him, and he immediately adds, "I don't mean in bed. I mean, your company, as a friend."

 _He suddenly wonders when he ever wanted a friend._

"I suppose being able to stay at a nice apartment rent-free beats living on the streets at this time," she shrugs. "I promise you, Erik, that I will find a job as soon as possible to repay your kindness."

"In the meantime, let me play you something on the grand," he offers, rising from the dining table to head to the music room. When he hears her light footsteps following him, he adds, "I do have to apologize in advance if I keep you up at night. I often lose track of time and compose late into the night."

"You won't hear me complaining about hearing exclusive previews to your work," she smiles at him. "Did I mention I am a huge fan of your work?"

"Say that again when you don't get any rest at all in days," Erik warns, stopping abruptly. "Oh, and one more thing, Christine, do not _ever_ touch my mask."


End file.
